


I'm content as we are (but)

by inqui (The_Circus)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Really John pay attention, Resolved Sexual Tension, UST, blowjob, eventually communication happens, honestly boys, just tell him, minor injury dealt with badly, sexually frustrated kissing, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 05:31:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5773237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circus/pseuds/inqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"There’s nothing, after all, that John would not do for Sherlock. So what if John’s head-over-heels, painfully, wholeheartedly, in love with Sherlock in a steady, burning sort of way? It bears no relevance to the point at hand; that there seems to be someone else and John has no prior claim. John’s perfectly happy to continue as they are. On cases they introduce each other as partners. The rest of the time, should it come up, as friends. John is content. Sherlock seems to be. Nothing needs to change."</i>
</p><p>In which John Watson sees something unusual, becomes jealous, and makes too much of a small thing as an old friend of Sherlock's shows up in the middle of a case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm content as we are (but)

**Author's Note:**

> This is set sometime after a happy/satisfying ending of the current series 3 story arc of Mary going away fast, going away now, either with the baby, or without. There is no baby here. John is in 221B and all is as all should be.
> 
> With that necessary background information, let the fun commence!

It’s a small thing, roughly the size of a laving mouth, tucked into the side of Sherlock’s neck. Purple and fading green, the bruise is framed by the way that the over-large stretched-out neck of Sherlock’s t-shirt slides to one side as he throws his arm around; gesturing about something, John doesn’t know what, but at this point in time John’s fairly sidetracked by the...hickey? Is it? Really? John can’t imagine Sherlock with something as mundane as a love-bite on his neck.

Where would he get it? To be fair, almost four days out of seven John’s out of the flat at the moment: at work, or running out for groceries or light bulbs or on one memorable occasion horse hair stuffing and a flick knife (back room of an army surplus shop, don’t ask) so there’s plenty of time for Sherlock to liaison with this theoretical ....lover? Hook-up? Boyfriend?

 _This isn’t the time to debate terminology_ John tells himself and very carefully doesn’t shake his head. He goes back to looking for interesting things in the classified adverts of the Daily Mail. Not John’s preferred paper, but Sherlock loves it for the sensationalism, if not the spurious messages it spews out in ALL CAPS on the front. They’ve had some cracking cases from the very pages he’s looking at now. He circles an unlikely looking small ad about a missing Pomeranian just for the hell of it. Sherlock pulls a funnier face than usual when John points out an unworthy case, something like a cross between a child disappointed at a lemon’s sourness and Maggie Smith raising a sardonic eyebrow. It cracks John up inside every time. Anyway, it’s none of John’s business. Absolutely none. Not at all.

~~~~~

The bruise is still none of John’s business.

~~~~~

It really is none of his business.

~~~~~

It’s still there. Hidden by the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, but there nonetheless.

~~~~~

And fuck it, John is jealous. Gut writhing, green eyed, bitter taste in the mouth, fist clenching envy. Because Sherlock is his, damn it. No, Sherlock belongs to no-one, John really doesn’t buy into the owning thing. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and, anyway, Sherlock had once gone on a rant about how the whole idea was, what was it? _An inherently flawed millennia old system designed to transfer women as property and ensure their silence and compliance._

John has made his choice. He’s chosen to live here, with Sherlock, and live their wonderfully insane life with the three am rude awakenings and the neatly wrapped dead frogs in the crisper draw of the fridge and the laughing like they’re small boys saying ‘poo’, and the glorious highs of a case well done and the in-between lows and the blessed/cursed violin that Sherlock’s been playing so much recently and the quiet days and the loud days and his work as a prison doctor up at Pentonville three days a week and a healthy relationship with his left hand, thank you very much. Sherlock’s made it clear, very clear, both on that second night and every now and then since (god, people flirt with Sherlock all the time, it’s torture) that he Doesn’t Do That. John respects that. So what, if when he’s in an indulgent mood, it’s Sherlock he thinks of? Doesn’t mean that anything will come of it. John knows nothing will come of it.

And now that....thing, on his neck. Proof that Sherlock does, sometimes (recently), let his defences down. Let someone close. Even if only for a night, or a quick shag. Repeated shag, because it’s still there, it hasn’t faded.

Someone who’s _not_ John.

“Ugh.” John thumps his pillow into a better shape. It doesn’t help. He has no right to feel like this. So what if he had thought that maybe, if Sherlock would, _come_ _on John, it’s just a word_ , have sex with anybody, it would be him? There’s nothing, after all, that John would not do for Sherlock. So what if John’s head-over-heels, painfully, wholeheartedly, in love with Sherlock in a steady, burning sort of way? It bears no relevance to the point at hand; that there seems to be someone else and John has no prior claim. John’s perfectly happy to continue as they are. On cases they introduce each other as partners. The rest of the time, should it come up, as friends. John is content. Sherlock seems to be. Nothing needs to change.

Does Sherlock like to be bitten like that? Because John could. He would, neatly. Bite into the skin over Sherlock’s clavicle; suck sweetly until the bruise rose. He would brush sensation into the skin stretched over Sherlock’s hip with firm strokes of his thumb, until the heat made Sherlock indolent with feeling. John would love him however he needed: softly, carefully, roughly, playfully, with laughter, with desperate gasps of breath.

Sweet Mary Mother of God, John needs to stop this now.

It takes him fifteen minutes of tossing and turning, fifteen minutes of counting backwards from 100 in Dari, fifteen minutes of closing his god damn eyes and trying to sleep before he gives in. It’s all too easy to think of Sherlock; John closes his hand around his stubborn cock and continues where he left off.  Sherlock’s a sensualist. He can protest about transport all he wants but Sherlock likes fine wool and music that swallows him whole; be it Bach or the ELO. When they went to a Michelin two star restaurant as thanks for their helping one of the sous-chefs, once, Sherlock happily ate three courses in small bites, his enjoyment obvious. John knows that Sherlock’s senses can be painfully acute so he would treat him right. Sherlock’s no wilting flower. He’s a man, a six foot gangling, fine suited, arsehole of a genius.

John wants to go down on him, just to see Sherlock’s face when his prick is in John’s mouth. He wants to fuck him, slowly, make sure that Sherlock doesn’t get lost in his head and feels everything. It’s an all consuming fantasy. John would spread Sherlock out on his own sheets; make sure that he kissed him into helpless wanting. Sherlock’s made for kissing. To be kissed until they can no longer remember the original aim, until it doesn’t matter who’s who.

John comes imagining Sherlock smiling into his mouth.

He’s fucked.

~~~~~

They have a case, the next week. It’s a welcome relief from getting caught up wondering about everything. John goes from work to Baker Street to Cockfosters after dark (never nice), back to Baker Street again, all in the space of under three hours at Sherlock’s request. He’s tired, wet, and pissed off that it took him so long to get the reference volume from the Museum of Domestic Design and Architecture. He’s pissed off that Sherlock couldn’t go and get it instead; the archivist was a tad...off? He’s pissed off that he had to sit with a muttering, sprawling drunk waiting on the platform on the way back. He’s pissed off that the tome he’s lugging around is heavy enough to make his shoulder ache. He’s pissed off that he’s getting so worked up over one small bruise that’s None Of His Business.

John can hear Sherlock’s violin from the street. The music trips jauntily out of the gap where the window has been shunted open. Sherlock’s framed in the window, playing a reel. Happy then. He only plays those sorts of dancing songs when he’s happy. John feels the glow of the window settle in his chest, lifting the day from his shoulders. He’s not even in 221B yet but the tune is the sort that grabs you by the heart and throws you forward, relentless.

John finds energy to take the stairs two at a time. He comes in via the kitchen, dropping _Middlesex University: 30 Years of Award Winning Architecture_ on the clear section of the kitchen table beside a surprisingly detailed drawing of a cornea on the back of an envelope. He heads straight to the kettle, switching it on before shucking his coat and draping it over one of the battered chairs.

“Cockfosters was awful, as you full well knew it would be, so thanks for sending me in your stead, you arse,” John says, as the jig comes to its end. “You want one?”

An unfamiliar chuckle answers, instead of Sherlock. John turns, caught on the spot. At the risk of sounding like a fairytale narrator, someone is sitting in his chair. 

“John,” Sherlock says, the slightest of catches in his voice. John hears it, but John knows Sherlock. “Meet Victor, Victor Trevor.”

Victor is of an average height but that’s the only average thing about him. He’s startlingly beautiful, with clear dark eyes, fine features and neatly clipped hair. He stands and walks around from John’s chair, offering his hand. John takes it. He feels bemused. Sherlock rarely mentions his past but John knows that while Victor was a close friend of Sherlock’s during his time at university they parted on iffy terms. Victor has never been mentioned outside of the tales of Cambridge.

“Hello.” Victor speaks with a Pakistani accent and a soft smile. John, against his will, is impressed with him. If he was at uni with Sherlock it would have been in the 1990’s. Not exactly a friendly time.

“It’s nice to meet you,” John manages to say as his mind spins. Sherlock gave no clue that Victor was current in his life, let alone in the county. As far as John knew Victor was in Lahore, not London. He’s obviously now in London. In London, and Sherlock's happy to see him, was playing for him. Victor is visiting _during a case_ , and Sherlock is happy to see him, has been entertaining him with no irritation for time lost. Did he send John to get the reference book so he could see Victor privately?

John feels sick. He schools himself. He’s been in pain before, immense pain, and never showed it. How is this any different from the time he discovered one of his first university girlfriends had been holding a long and tumultuous affair with her physics lab partner? Except, of course, Sherlock isn’t John’s.

This feels worse. Seeing Sherlock smile like that at Victor hurts in the pits of his lungs. It’s obvious now. Victor is the mysterious lover. John has been defeated without knowing. All his guesses are right. Sherlock does like men.

But not him. Not John Watson, who has the world’s most stupid middle name and an occasionally inappropriate temper. Behind him, the kettle comes complaining to the boil. John backs away into the kitchen and busies his hands.

“No,” Sherlock says.

John turns back around. Sherlock’s looking a tad pink in the cheeks but he flushes as easily as anything when he’s relaxed so that means nothing, really. John doesn’t check himself as he looks Sherlock over. Sleeves folded up to the elbow, his shirt is a rich navy blue. It suits him. His form is all lines. If John was an artist, he would be begging to draw him in rough charcoal strokes.

Some sort of thin fabric is in his hands. John realises he’s twisting the tea towel tightly. There’s no satisfaction in it so he carefully lets go and tucks it over the oven door handle. It seems the oven is clear for once.

“Victor and I already have a drink,” Sherlock clarifies. He picks up a wine glass from the small octagonal table; there are a couple of mouthfuls of deep red liquid still left.

“All right,” John says steadily. How is he steady when it feels like his guts have slithered from his body? Stupid. He loves the thrill, the tip over the edge, the danger. _Not like this,_ he thinks. He doesn’t like danger like this, he doesn’t relish this. His mug is full; the tea-bag removed to the composting caddy and the milk is back in the fridge. He’s made his tea without noticing. “I’ll leave you two to it. Um, the book you asked for is on the table. Appreciate it; I had to listen to twenty–five minutes about local amateur theatre.” John mentally pats down his pockets. He has everything he needs for a quick escape to his room except his laptop. It’s down by his chair, where Victor is sitting. Never mind. He has a book he’s borrowed from one of the prison guards that he needs to read and return. “’Night.”

Sherlock looks at John and John is so disarmed that for a second he thinks that Sherlock is going to ask what’s wrong. Thank god, he doesn’t. “Good night,” Sherlock says. And then he smiles, softly, turning back to Victor as he sits down. Is it John’s imagination, or are the chairs closer than normal? He trudges upstairs with his heavy heart and too hot tea. The voices of the two men downstairs are an intimate murmur one storey away. It sounds like he and Sherlock sound when they’re tossing details quickly back and forth on a case, or talking about nothing of a slow evening. There’s laughter, quiet enough to indicate they’re thinking of him and keeping their voices down. It’s the consideration that hurts most.

Several times the violin sings, low and mournful or a sweet section of lullaby or once something that sounds like a love song. He’s written Victor a love song and that’s the thing that wrecks John’s hopes for good. John drops the book he’s trying and failing to read and curls on his side in a tense, bitter ball and stays like that, determinedly not thinking, until he falls asleep.

~~~~~

John doesn’t wake, exactly, but he does become aware of light and a voice. He turns too fast to look at the time on his clock and it makes his head spin. The numbers resolve themselves into 4:51 am and a head of curly hair.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” says the curly hair.

“Sherlock?” John mumbles through a stale mouth. “Why are you sitting by my bed? Do we need to go somewhere?”

_you, MACHINE, fine, I’m going_

“No,” Sherlock says from his position on the floor. He’s reading the book that John threw away in his fit of misery last night by the light of the bedside lamp. “This is a puerile book.”

_and Sherlock falls and falls and falls; slips straight through his fingers and lands safely in Victor’s waiting arms, tousled and happy_

It takes the dampness of his cheeks and the pressure in his sinuses for John to put what’s happened together. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

_please, please, let me see him, please, he’s my friend, please_

_you let him fall. why should you?_

"You didn’t. I was in the kitchen,” Sherlock confirms, still flicking through the frankly ridiculous excuse for an action/adventure detective series. “But Victor is asleep.”

John flops onto his back and doesn’t move. “So you came up here.” And turned on John’s lamp to help ease him painlessly out of his nightmares. The voice at the edge of his awareness on waking was Sherlock, John realises, reading aloud to guide him along.

“You were begging,” Sherlock states and John is so, so grateful for the neutrality in his voice. “Oh god, please,” he quotes. “Was it Afghanistan?”

Never has John been gladder for Sherlock’s mis-comprehension of emotion. In many ways that’s unfair to Sherlock because of course he feels emotions. Differently, but deeply. He cares passionately about justice and The Work, though in many ways those two are tied together. Sherlock drags other people along with his moods: be they riotous happiness or the lingering dullness of a sulk.

“Yes,” John says, swallowing. It’s half a lie. The ones that had woken him up far more violently at 1:23 am and 2:07 am respectively had partially been about the weight of his blood draining from his body, about the static silence of his struggling heart in his ears and the gigantic, terrifying sky. This hasn’t been a good night.

 _I,_ John thinks, _am so fucked up it’s funny._ God, no wonder Sherlock prefers Victor over him. Even John wouldn’t take a punt at himself and he was, as has been noted several times, a slag across three continents. The idea is so perversely amusing that he chuckles in a huff of breath.

“What’s funny?” Sherlock asks, tilting his head back onto the mattress.

“Nothing,” John says. “Stupid night-time thought.”

“Oh, well, in that case don’t share it.” Sherlock smoothly rises to his feet. He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes, though they are considerably more rumpled, as if they’ve been put on after being on the floor.  John swallows as Sherlock leaves the room, closing the door after himself until it is only cracked open.

~~~~~

John tosses and turns until an acceptable time (6:00 am) before pulling himself out of bed and downstairs. He dresses completely; the buttons on his shirt and the laces on his shoes are what’s holding him together. He feels like he’s been run over by a lorry stuck in M25 traffic. He’s working today, thank god. He needs the space to pull himself back together or this is going to get completely out of hand and start affecting things.

Sherlock’s absorbed in the book that kick-started this whole sorry affair. There are copious amounts of notes scribbled onto post-its which in turn are sticking out from the pages. John gets himself a drink of water from the tap before going round the table to grab his coat from where he left it- over the chair where Sherlock is now sitting. He’ll get something for breakfast and a coffee from one of the numerous early opening cafes around Caledonian Road.

“I hung it up,” Sherlock says without lifting his head, writing something on yet another post-it and pasting it in the margin before turning to the next page.

“Ta,” John says, circling round. There’s his coat, hung up beside Sherlock’s and what’s presumably Victor’s  (it’s a smart tan wool). “I’ll see you this evening, yeah. Text me if you solve it.”

~~~~~

John’s day is thankfully, mercifully, busy. The most interesting appointments are the two sets of stitches, one flare of crohn’s, a hypoglycaemic fit, three urinary tract infections (condoms are not just for pregnancy prevention) and other sexually transmitted infection checkups, an infected leg sore, two anal tears, one abraded throat from a smuggling scheme gone wrong, several smoking related illnesses and checking the vision of a man with diabetic retinopathy. There are mental health appointments scattered here and there. The rest are a mix of run of the mill and lags who want a bit of a change of scene. He doesn’t get home til gone seven.

Sherlock’s notes have spread in the thirteen hours he’s been gone. They drape down from the end of the desk and spread in a train across the living room floor. “More instances, then,” John says in greeting. Blueprints are taking up most of the space. Sherlock has pinned the details of the original three thefts in the usual place: under the smiley face.

“Mmmm,” says Sherlock. “None of the usual suspects have any relevant motive. This is getting interesting.”

“You had anything to eat today?” John’s starving; he barely had any time for lunch. He digs around in the fridge and comes up with the vegetable curry he cooked two nights ago.

“Victor made me eat lunch before he left.”

Good. If Sherlock's going to have a boyfriend, paramour, friend with benefits, at least he knows what Sherlock is like and how get him to do things without making him feel like he’s being handled. (In John’s opinion that’s where Mycroft goes wrong every time.) It makes John feel a bit less guilty about leaving before having breakfast with Sherlock.

“There is a connection, though,” Sherlock says, interrupting John’s musings as the microwave hums and the lazy-susan inside spins round and round and round and round. “All the buildings the thefts took place in were built in the last thirty years and have won awards for their design. They’re all in the book I had you get. I went over this afternoon to get the lending records.”

“Meet the archivist? It was your turn to be talked at without escape about the values of Cole Porter verses Rogers and Hammerstein and poor ticket sales. You want some of this?”

Sherlock shakes his head and falls silent as John picks his way across to the square of clear space on the window-side desk to eat. “I didn’t exactly announce my arrival.” Meaning Sherlock put on a pair of jeans, a ratty jumper and a zip-up hoodie and strolled in with an overburdened bag looking for all the world like a harried post-grad.

“So, who’s borrowed the book?” John asks after working his way around an overly large mouthful of curry and rice.

“Bradstreet’s running the names, and those of the people who were gifted a copy. Hopefully we won’t have to go up to Newcastle.”

So it’s a waiting game now.  No wonder Sherlock’s staring at the wall like it’s purposely jumbled the evidence.

Right, John can do this, John can be nice. “Did Victor get off okay?”

“Hmmm, what? Oh, Victor, yes. Left around three to go to work.” Sherlock’s sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to John. From what John can see of his laptop screen he’s systematically googling each of the names on the lending list and forming his own opinions.

“What does he do?”

“Victor? He’s an air traffic controller. Why are you asking about him now?” John’s heart catches in his caw.

“I’m curious,” John says. John has never been able to lie directly to people’s faces but he’s become the master of the half-truth. “I mean, you’ve mentioned him but I never expected him to show up here.”

“Neither did I,” replies Sherlock. John can hear the fondness in Sherlock's voice and hates it. Hates himself for hating it. “This book was published in 2013; it’s been lent a total of four times since then. Twice it was returned in a week- not enough time to plan as many break-ins as this. Each building was designed by a different architect. Once over Christmas, but that was in 2013. The first thefts start thirteen months later. What’s the point in waiting that long? The final student, Facebook informs me, is wheelchair bound and has been for the vast majority of her life.”

“So, none of them could,” John confirms, pushing his plate away. “What about people who didn’t borrow it, just used it in there?”

“Impossible,” sighs Sherlock. “No records.” He unfolds himself from the floor and picks up his violin. He plays snatches of the love song he’s writing for Victor. Suddenly the curry’s not sitting as well in John’s stomach.

Doing the washing up in the safety of the kitchen John can appreciate the beauty of the composition. It is melancholic, but something sings through, the something that makes John label it a love song. Turning around with wet hands John looks at Sherlock. He’s lost in the musical net he’s weaving, eyes closed. While John likes music and will happily accompany Sherlock to any sort of performance- from those in small churches to late night clubs of all sorts- it’s not his entertainment of choice. Sherlock is... entranced beyond the usual. _Victor had better appreciate what he has,_ John thinks fiercely.  Here’s Sherlock laying his heart bare and the man it’s singing for isn’t here. Sherlock’s practicing; this is a rehearsal for the main event.

John couldn’t love him more. Knowing all he knows now, that if Sherlock’s budding relationship with Victor goes well his life here will come to an end, the love is threatening to spill out with every breath, out of every pore, like it knows that it has to be expressed before the end comes. Maybe if John gets it all out now it will hurt less later.

~~~~~

There’s a week of two small cases taken for the fee only and three evening visits by Victor that leave Sherlock softer than usual and content in his own skin. Victor’s a perfectly nice man and seems able to match Sherlock in many ways. John’s pretty sure that while he’s at work and Victor is not Sherlock goes somewhere with him too. John’s spent lots of time in his room, writing up old cases and being stubbornly happy that Sherlock's so happy.

“John!” Sherlock bounds up the stairs, a whirlwind of coat and infectious energy. “I’ve been an idiot!”

John is already on his feet, heading for his coat. “I doubt that,” he says, heart starting to pound. He can feel it already, the thrill of the chase, the climax of the case approaching at a rapid clip.

“It’s the archivist you were complaining about. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. She’s had unlimited access to the building plans, time to plan, a shift schedule that she controls, and an ever increasing debt of nearly £990 to a decidedly dodgy payday loan outfit. That and seventeen different accounts across eBay, gumtree, and craigslist.” Sherlock is lit up. This is how John loves him best, in his element. This sight is still his.

Things fall into place for John. The slight shiftiness of her and; “I bet it’s really useful to be good at amateur dramatics when you’re blagging your way into places,” John adds as Sherlock half drags him out the door.

“Do you want to see her arrested? Lestrade got the warrant signed five minutes ago.”

“You know I do.” It’s these moments, the breathless ones, that taunt cruelly and John can’t help but get caught up. That is, until Sherlock starts signalling for a cab. “No.” John grabs his sleeve and pulls his arm down. “Not all the way out to Zone 6. We’ll change at Kings Cross.”

\--

It turns out that the archivist, Leslie Martin, 32, with a compulsive shopping habit, also used to be an Olympic hopeful 200 metre runner. She leads them on a merry chase through the main campus of Middlesex University into the library. She’s fast, decidedly vicious, and has a surprisingly good arm with a copy of the Concise Oxford English Dictionary. Sherlock may be the detective, but this is John’s world, and he sees it happen before her arm completes its arc.

Above all, Sherlock is John’s first priority. Always and forevermore and he has been for six years now. Sherlock has a life, has come back to life, Sherlock is life. If the book continues on its current path it will meet Sherlock’s throat. That cannot happen. A book that size with that amount of force behind it will crush the brackets of cartilage holding the windpipe open; depriving oxygen and inducing shock and panic. If John pushes forward it will hit John at a lower moment in the swing: less power into his chest and a larger point of impact means less force spread over a greater area. Entirely recoverable within five seconds.

John is wrong on one point. The dictionary hits his shoulder and knocks him back. He catches his arm on a table. The pain is so staggering that for a moment John’s not sure what’s happening. The light’s all wrong. It should be dusk. It should be cold. He can feel the blood on his hand. He’s a doctor; he knows what’s happening to himself. When he splutters he can taste iron at the back of his mouth. The bullet must have hit the top of his lung. He’s drowning. He’s losing blood at a frankly terrifying rate. The slug is still in him; John can feel it burning the fragments of his scapula and clavicle.

“John!”

That’s wrong.

“John! JOHN. Open your eyes. Look at me!” That voice is not supposed to be here. That’s not what happened. “JOHN.”

Sherlock. _Sherlock._ Sherlock’s leaning over him, fear writ large across his face, eyes wide. It brings John back to himself and his place in time and space. Library at Middlesex University, 2016, not Helmand in that awful late July of 2009. There’s worn out industrial carpet beneath him and large hands cradling his head. His left shoulder _(fuck me)_ is almost certainly dislocated.

“Oh, god, are you okay? I’m so sorry; really, I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry...” Another pair of hands is joining in the fun, patting over his torso. Above him, John can hear Sherlock snapping at Leslie.

John takes two seconds to be in shock and then drags himself back with sheer force of will and a fair amount of practice.

“Help me stretch the arm out,” John orders, wrenching his eyes open. He’s met with the sight of Sherlock and Leslie kneeling over him. “How many minutes before the cops get here?”

“Five; we were fast and they’ll have to search floor to floor,” Sherlock answers automatically before catching hold of the situation. “What are you talking about?”

“Leslie, help me get my coat off. Sherlock, please say you have a pair of scissors.”

Leslie moves carefully with practice borne of dealing with sports injuries, easing John’s coat off his good shoulder before the bad while Sherlock rifles through his many pockets and pulls out a three inch swiss army knife.

“This is moronic,” Sherlock states while using the scissors to cut open the sleeve of John’s shirt nonetheless. “You should be in a hospital.”

“Nope,” John says, “Cut up to the collar, please. Need to see the shoulder.”

“Mr Holmes is right,” Leslie chips in shyly. She seems understandably nervous, given that she’s been roped into helping one of the people who were chasing after her not two minutes ago. “I didn’t mean to do this, but it looks nasty, you really should go to a hospital.”

“No,” John says shortly, taking a deep breath in and blinking up at the ceiling panels. “Not happening. By the time I’m seen it will have swelled up and they’ll have to do surgery to get it back into place. Trying to keep the motion in this arm instead of restricting it, thanks.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, hushed.

“Swap places with Leslie and follow my instructions.” It’s undignified, lying flat out on the floor while Sherlock and Leslie shuffle around him. “Now, take hold of my elbow and wrist and pull. Keep it parallel to the floor. Don’t stop until it’s back in place.”

“This is going to hurt.”

“Know that, ta. Do it anyway,” John says tightly.

It hurts. It hurts like hell, but a minute later the ball of his shoulder has been pulled and popped back into the socket and his pulse is the same at both wrists with no tingling indication of trapped nerves. John’s on his feet, coat back on and his arm in a makeshift sling made from Sherlock’s scarf as ten seconds later the first uniformed officer crashes through the doors to see the three of them leaning against the table that took out John.

Sherlock is stiff and unhelpful towards the police and almost seems to be giving John the silent treatment in the car back to 221b. He has, unusually, accepted the offered lift, or rather the offered lift that Lestrade had ordered a local bobby to give them.

“Sherlock?” John tries, 15 minutes in as they zoom back into central London along Hendon Way. Sherlock very deliberately turns to look at the drab multi-flat houses that zip past.

It hurts. Sherlock’s not blanked John like this for a long time, a very long time. By the time they get back to the flat Sherlock will have completely wound himself up into a prickly tangle of anger. He’ll be snapping for any sort of argument. It’s very different from their usual post-case routine of either an exhausted collapse followed by a ravenous search for food or a laughter filled, intimate dinner followed by cherished closeness until sleep washes over them.

Steeling himself, John watches Park Road go by. Sherlock says nothing as they get out. John awkwardly thanks their driver. He hopes the poor woman doesn’t have to go back to Cockfosters tonight.

Sherlock is pointedly holding the front door open for John. They trudge upstairs. All John wants is the packet of peas from the freezer and a couple of ibuprofen.  He watches as Sherlock vanishes into his room immediately. It’s a horrible relief. They’ve fought this fight several times; it always gets nastily personal decidedly quickly. They’re both the root of the problem. On paper it seems straightforward, they both object to the other getting hurt while doing something to protect them but acknowledge that at some points it’s going to happen. In practice, however, nothing is as smooth. They may have once agreed to die _with_ each other but several years and tribulations on the possibility of losing the other has them both on trigger hairs.

Peas secured to the recently reset joint with Sherlock’s scarf John flops into a kitchen chair, wincing as he thoughtlessly jars his shoulder. He knows exactly how he needs to immobilise it and then what physio exercises he’ll need to do over the next few weeks. He’s not looking forward to it. He’ll need to call into work for the first week at least. The groan that rattles around his head is deep and sincere.

~~~~~

 John wakes with a scream trapped in his throat at 12:38. Sherlock’s not sitting by him on the floor.

John wakes at 01:13 with a raw throat. Sherlock’s not there.

John wakes at 03:49 still screaming. He doesn’t bite his lip against the sobs this time.

John sits on his bed until dawn, feeling six years past and achingly lonely in a way he hasn’t since Sherlock decided to test the hypothesis of self-propelled human flight. At some point he hears the front door open and then close.

Dressing one-handedly is something John hasn’t had to do for a while. He uses it as an exercise in compartmentalisation. He hurts. Not just his shoulder, but a deeper ache. If Sherlock’s decided that taking a hit for him is an unforgivable act then John won’t change a thing. He won’t _not_ do it. Just like Sherlock has said that he’ll step off that fucking roof again. Sherlock is not the stubbornness champion in this household. In that, at least, John has the upper hand.

At eight John goes down to Speedy’s to get out of the flat. He sits tucked in the corner by the door to the kitchen and finishes his book over several cups of tea and a breakfast sandwich. Speedy’s is the same as ever with dark tabletops and yellow walls. Sherlock once sent a glass bottle of vinegar shattering on the floor with a mis-timed swish of his coat at this table. 103 pages later Jack Reacher has twisted his way out of another gnarly death, shooting and/or fucking anything that’s moved along the way. John’s empty plate has been taken away and he only had the dregs of his last cup of tea remaining.

Victor’s waiting in 221B when John gets back up. He’s sat on the sofa, reading something on an iPad. Sherlock must have given him the (ever-changing) Wi-Fi key. John never changes it, but occasionally Sherlock will get it into his head to test John’s password guessing skills. Their network’s named ‘Piss Off, Mycroft’. It was a mutual decision.

“Sherlock’s out, I’m afraid,” John says awkwardly. He takes off his coat. It’s a procedure that involves a half-shrug before letting the coat slide off the one arm it’s properly on to the floor and then picking it up. John hangs it up on the back of the door, automatically rubbing at a depression in the wood where a poker was once thrown at it.

“Oh, no,” Victor says from the sofa. “I left him asleep. I’m here to see you.”

John doesn’t want to speak to Victor but nothing has gone John’s way in the last sixteen hours. He sits in the chair between the door and skull painting. It’s uncomfortable. That’s okay. John’s uncomfortable.

“Sherlock let himself in at around half-past six this morning,” Victor begins. “He had walked from here to...”

“That’s over seven miles,” John interrupts.

“He wouldn’t say a thing, just sat there drumming his fingertips on his knee. I had to put _Blue Planet_ on before he would relax.”

John has to smile at that. Sherlock owns several Attenborough box-sets.  Putting them on, or any repeats on TV are one of the few things guaranteed to get him to come over to the sofa and relax a bit (that and QI, which John loves and Sherlock claims is ‘a font of unnecessary and useless tripe’. He likes it really, if begrudgingly). John’s been careful with his application of Attenborough over the years; as far as he can tell Sherlock hasn’t twigged yet. Or he has and is playing along, but gets caught up every time.

Idiot. Sherlock’s an idiot of a genius. John’s a cock for not checking on him.

“Seeing you does explain somewhat,” Victor prompts. “Can I ask what happened?” He’s leaning forward, forearms rested on his knees and hands clasped. It’s just what John would do if all he knew was that Sherlock was wound up and hurting. He would go out and look for answers so he could help. He would put on _Blue Planet_ to lure Sherlock into resting. He’s done all these things. Now it seems that Victor is. “I know he was about to close the thefts case.”

“We did,” John says. “Um, it was the archivist. She had a dictionary. It dislocated my shoulder.” It strikes John that that’s all he’s willing to say. John doesn’t want to tell Victor, Sherlock’s boyfriend, confidante, stupid love squeeze, that he took the hit to save Sherlock from a possible tracheotomy. Or that Sherlock had to help reset his shoulder. Definitely not about the displacement back to Afghanistan or the nightmares. “I’m glad he has you,” John manages to say. And he is. John would never begrudge Sherlock any happiness. Even if it’s not with him.

“Thank you,” Victor replies, looking a tad bemused.

“Just.” Does John want to do this? Really? He never imagined he’d be giving the stupid ‘hurt him and I’ll hurt you’ talk on Sherlock’s behalf. On anybody’s behalf really. Harry’s always managed to take care of herself. Anyway, by the time that mid-teenage romance was shoving itself into their lives they were living with Stella and Ted and that had just increased her determined independence. “Be kind to him, please. He feels more deeply than he lets on.” It feels an awful lot like surrendering. John Watson has never voluntarily surrendered in his life. He’s retreated, and stepped back, and been shoved out, but nothing like this. It’s a heavy acknowledgement.

“Um.” Victor says. He looks from side to side awkwardly and his hands do something clenchy.  “Ah, John. No, Uh, Sherlock and I aren’t together at all. I’m only here for two months doing a course at Heathrow. I was amazed as anything when he agreed to see me after the way we left things.”

It’s a punch to the solar plexus. It’s water and ice cubes being thrown over his head. John might as well be hearing a fizzling sound and looking at the static of an analogue television. “You’re not?” he manages.

“No.” Victor says. There’s a tiny flicker of something hovering at the corner of his mouth. It might be an amused smile.

“Really?”

“I think my wife would object and then castrate me,” Victor says, smile stretching across his face. “As we’ve already agreed to try for another child I’m trying to avoid that.”

“Oh.” John takes a minute to sit and breathe and recover. It’s a whirlwind rollercoaster, taking all that hope and desperation away and giving it back in so little time. There’s no-one? If Victor’s the person Sherlock’s been spending time with, understandable if he’s going back to Lahore in a month and a half, then who gave him the bruise that started all of this? “I thought, because of.” John gestures to his neck, pointing out the place where it was on his own skin. “It’s not a love bite? And that composition he was playing to you, it’s practically a love song.”

Victor, sod him, laughs. “You’ve never seen it before? It’s from the violin. He had it on and off at uni. Some weeks he used to play until his fingers bled.”

Of course it’s from the violin. The beautiful, cocking, violin. Sherlock treats it like a lover anyway, cares for it with a tender touch that’s mindful of the details. Of course it would be. John feels monumentally stupid. The mark is where the lip of the wood presses into Sherlock’s clavicle. This is the most classic of molehill to mountain situations. An unusual mark, a returned ‘exotic lover’. He might as well be trying to write a cheap tatty romance.

“As for the ‘love song’,” Victor says slyly, “I asked him what he’d been working on. That’s all.”

“So he didn’t go to you for ‘comfort’?” John’s trying to get all of this to lie straight in his head.

“Not the sort that you were thinking of,” confirms Victor.

There’s still a chance. Still a massive chance. The entire thing is a panicked construction of his own. Because John has been content with what they have. Happy with it until it was almost taken away from him and now, now he knows that if they go back to normal after this he will still be content but there’s a chance for John to properly ask Sherlock. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock loves him too. John has to tell Sherlock now he’s thought all this through _without_ panicky guesses and assumptions (God, Sherlock’s going to be crowing forever about John ‘twisting the facts to suit the theory’). John has to talk to Sherlock, confess and let Sherlock know that he is loved. So, so loved. There’s only one thing to do in this situation. John turns to Victor.

“Do you want a drink?”

~~~~~

They’ve moved onto lunch by the time John hears Sherlock coming up the stairs. Now John isn’t jealous and playing at being nice he and Victor are getting on well. They’ve been light-heartedly arguing over whether cricket or rugby is the best (John’s always going to go with rugby but he used to be around enough other officers to have a decent batting arm), talking about Victor’s family (his wife, Raani, a tea merchant for Twinning’s, their two children; a pair of scrappy, bright fraternal twins), and swapping Sherlock stories. John has enough cheeky blackmail that he’s going to be able to coerce Sherlock into doing the necessary consultant paperwork for the Yard for ages. Greg’s going to owe him several pints. John likes the Sherlock in Victor’s accounts; curious, happy to be sailing above his peers, and having no qualms about using some of them to get what he wants.

Victor stands and looks between Sherlock, who’s stiff and stationary in the middle of the room, wrapped up in his coat and scarf, hands ensconced in pockets, looking away slightly, and John. “Thanks for the sandwiches, John,” says Victor, gathering up his jacket. He shakes John’s hand, managing to put ‘good luck’ and ‘have a nice talk’ and ‘you two silly buggers are so in love’ into it. He pats Sherlock’s arm on the way out.

“John,” Sherlock says, after front door has opened and closed and Victor is gone.

“Sherlock,” John says. They pause, not looking at each other. John’s vividly aware of Sherlock. Of the tense, nervous line of his shoulders, of the way that he can’t meet John’s gaze. John wants to sit him down and gentle him until he melts. He wants to give him the knowledge that he never needs to be unsure of John in any way, because John will always be there however Sherlock wants him.

“Last night,” Sherlock begins, drawing himself up and taking off his coat like everything’s normal. John can see him drawing unaffectedness around him like a cloak. “I was rude.”

“It’s fine,” John says, moving away from the sofa. He goes over to the desk and starts compulsively straightening one-handed.

“I would be in hospital, if you hadn’t...”

“Yes,” John agrees. “You would.” He has to be patient and let Sherlock say what he wants to say. It’s hard, when he hopes that there’s a good chance Sherlock loves him. Him. John embarrassing-middle-name-Hamish Watson, with an immoral view of danger and a bit of an adrenaline problem and a shit upbringing that makes it hard to rely on others. “Look, I know you don’t like seeing me hurt. It was pretty shit of me, to make you reset my shoulder like that. I should have gone to the hospital.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, and finally looks at John.  The tension collapses. It’s the biggest single bit of relief so far. They’re okay. They’re pants at the talking bit, but they’re okay.

Oh bugger it. “It’s just, Sherlock, I love...”

“I love you,” Sherlock says at the same time.

It’s like the moment kindling catches the woodpile. John feels it welling up inside him from his gut, flickering up his throat as he smiles. God, this. John loves Sherlock entirely: all the mean bits and the bad bits and the brilliant bits and the soft bits and the bits that he doesn’t know yet. All the saints help him, he loves the drug addict ( _user_ ) and the inside-the-mind-palace and the melancholy and the ecstatic and the musician and the detective and the kitchen scientist and the providing-ungainful-employment-for-the-homeless-network semi-altruist. And this man, this man who is all of these things and more _loves him back_. Has just said so, thrust it out like a badly wrapped gift he expects to be rejected.

Sherlock’s half frozen, looking at John with a kind of wonder that John used to see during his obstetric days. “You do?” he says, like he’s uncertain but doesn’t want to break the spell.

“I do,” John confirms firmly and gives in. It takes two steps to get to Sherlock. Two steps because Sherlock has taken a stride towards him. They practically bump into each other and they cling and cling and cling and cling. John’s never letting go. Of this he is certain: Sherlock will have to be a detective at crime scenes with a permanently attached John Watson. It’s going to make doctoring up at Pentonville hard but John’s sure they’ll be able to manage it.

They part enough to look at each other. The space between them where they’re pressed front to front and forehead to forehead feels solid but everything else around them may as well be a floating dream. Sherlock’s leaning over and John’s leaning back a tad. It must be uncomfortable but John can’t feel a thing other than fierce joy. They’re breathing each other’s breath, unwilling to separate anymore. “Look at you,” John finds himself murmuring. “Look at you, you marvellous thing. You love me.”

It’s Sherlock who takes the initiative and leans down to clumsily kiss John. It’s a bit too hard; their mouths knock, but what’s better than that is the idea that Sherlock _wants_ to. John wriggles his good arm free from the tight standing knot they’re melded into and gently cups Sherlock’s cheek.

“Like this, yeah.” He guides them together and then they’re kissing, sunshine and rainbows and sodding dancing ponies. John takes his time, lets them sample the other and it’s wonderful to simply kiss and be close like this. John doesn’t know how long they spend kissing. At some point Sherlock’s left hand comes up to hold John’s hand to his face. Eventually, John’s shoulder begrudgingly reminds him it was out of its socket three quarters of a day ago and they have to part some. They’re left holding hands in the middle of the room. It’s just gone two o’clock in the afternoon.  As far as John’s concerned the sun could’ve started orbiting around the earth and he wouldn’t care right now. The fear and joy and blessed relief of the moment are all that matters. “I didn’t think that you did this,” John says a bit breathlessly, blinking up at Sherlock.

“Occasionally,” Sherlock says in the same tone he uses to entice John on dangerous cases. He’s looking at John like John is the best locked room puzzle in the world. It’s a heady feeling. “You were jealous of Victor. Why?”

“I thought you were having sex with him,” John admits. “I thought he gave you this.” He slips his hand inside Sherlock’s collar and strokes one finger over the bruise from the violin. I’d never seen you have any sort of mark before and...”

“You assumed he was my exotic lover, like some sort of tawdry romance.”

“I knew you were going to say that.” John shakes his head at Sherlock’s occasional predictability; something that Sherlock will fiercely deny. “I was happy, honestly Sherlock, I was happy as we were, I don’t mind if you only want this for a bit, or only now and then.” It is vital, suddenly, that John gets Sherlock to understand this. He pulls them over to sit down. Their chairs are close enough that if they both lean forward they can stay linked.

“I’m happy however we are. I did say, it’s all fine, I thought that you didn’t do anything sexual at all, but the idea of you like that with someone else...” Even the memory of it now. It’s the most jealous he’s ever been. “Well, I suppose you know how that feels.”

“I do,” says Sherlock. He’s closed his eyes, and seems to be doing the best he can to memorise John’s palm with his fingertips. “And as I said.” Sherlock draws John’s hand to his mouth, “occasionally, for the right person, I do.” He sucks the tips of John’s fingers into his mouth. Sherlock’s lips are like a pouting rose. He looks straight into John’s eyes as he laves at the fingertips, flicks his tongue down the underside. It makes John suck a breath in, suddenly very aware of just how many nerves are in the hands. Intellectually, John know that aside from the mouth there are more sensory nerves in the hands than anywhere else in the body but there’s nothing like a practical demonstration to remind him. Inside Sherlock’s mouth is warm and his tongue is strong and soft. There seems to be a direct connection between John’s fingers and his cock right now; he can feel it starting to shift, interested in the way that things seem to be going.

“As for you,” Sherlock says, delicately cleaning his saliva from John’s fingers with precise laps of his tongue. “You’re bisexual.”

It’s not exactly a mood killer, as such, but the ins and outs of John’s sexuality are not what he wants to be discussing right now. “Later,” he promises, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock again because he has to; how could he not? “Ask any question, I’ll tell you whatever you like, later.”

“That’s dangerous,” Sherlock kisses against John’s lips. “Giving me a carte blanche like that.”

“You said dangerous,” John kisses right back, taking his time to linger, to draw Sherlock in. Somehow they end up with Sherlock kneeling up between John’s legs in front of his chair so they’re on a level. Sherlock’s clutching at John’s shoulder and arm and John has his hand wound into Sherlock’s hair and his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth. They’re both making small breathless noises, trying to absorb all of the other’s oxygen. John tugs at Sherlock’s hair a bit and Sherlock makes a lovely noise, pausing and then kissing back with more urgency. “Do you want to go somewhere a bit more comfortable?” John asks. He pauses and thinks about what he’s just said. “I’m sorry, that was a terrible line.” There’s a huff of laughter from them both.

They end up entwined on the sofa doing the sort of thing teenaged John called heavy petting. It’s delicious. Sherlock has his neck tilted back, allowing John to place small kisses all along it. The most careful one is licked into the same spot as the violin bruise on the other side. John likes it. It’s his little mark.

Sherlock likes it; John can tell. Sherlock’s reaction lines up wonderfully with John’s wonderings about whether he likes to be bitten. It turns out he does. Sherlock makes a little ‘ah’ noise when John nips at his skin, tensing and then practically melting into the sofa back. John goes, “ha!” in triumph before getting back to turning Sherlock into a Sherlock shaped puddle. Sherlock has opinions on this plan. They're good opinions, it seems, as he enthusiastically sets about trying to do the same to John.

It’s working. John wants to touch Sherlock but he has a problem. He’s currently using one arm to support himself on the back of the sofa as he leans over Sherlock. The other’s in its sling. He can’t touch Sherlock and stay upright. Luckily, John also has his genius moments. “Can we lie down?”

“Your arm,” Sherlock says, detaching himself slightly. “Of course.” He looks at John. Sherlock’s lips are red from kissing; slightly swollen and wet. There’s a flush high on his cheeks and his eyes are bright. He might be 40, but right now Sherlock looks young and happy.

The sofa isn’t designed for two grown men to lie on. They manage. Sherlock’s taken his jacket off. His shirt is pale green, the colour of the first snowdrops and too early spring. John’s getting maudlin. This is making him maudlin. As if sensing the mood (how could he not, given how close they are), Sherlock slows the kisses. He’s stroking up and down John’s arm, seemingly appreciative of the muscles beneath John’s old cotton shirt. It’s flattering.

The kissing peters out. As much as John would love to jump straight into bed with Sherlock he’s not really in the condition to do so. Sherlock seems to be of same opinion because he stays where he is, carefully resting his head on John’s right shoulder. But there’s nothing to stop John having an indulgent rest right now with Sherlock laying liquid cat like over him.

“You will still sleep in my bed, won’t you?” Sherlock cranes his neck to look up at John. “I want to turn your room into storage. I can put all my disguises up there if you move down.”

“How could you tell what I was thinking of?”

“You’re turned on, semi-erect and have made no move to do anything about it even though I was blatantly inviting you into bed with my actions earlier. You rolled your shoulder slightly, clearly thinking about how it’s currently impeding you, but then tightened your hold on me and settled again. In summary, you want to take me to bed and have sex, but have to keep your shoulder immobile. However, you are content with the current moment and want it to happen more. Simple.”

“Amazing,” John says and presses a kiss in to Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock doesn’t move, but John gets the sense of how pleased he really is. “But not tonight. Next week, after the sling comes off, I will quite happily both take you to bed and sleep in your bed.”

“Pah,” Sherlock grumbles. “If you must wait.”

“Until you can sprawl all over me and the bed without causing me pain? Yes.”

“Very well,” acquiesces Sherlock. “But not a night longer.”

~~~~~

It is at exactly 9pm one week later that an alarm goes off on Sherlock’s phone. Sherlock closes the chemistry A-Level textbook he’s annotating/correcting (for a laugh as far as John can tell) and drops it so fast that it makes a sharp clapping noise as the air beneath it is displaced. He swipes at the alarm to get it to shut off as it increases in volume.

“What’s that?” John asks, looking up from where he’s sat on the other side of the desk. Sherlock’s eyes are lit up with an unholy glow of anticipation. He’s practically vibrating.

“One week,” Sherlock says, coming around behind him and trying to pull John’s chair out so he’ll stand. “Get up. You said one week. Your shoulder is fine. You’ve had the sling off since this morning.”

It’s not that there hasn’t been plenty of lounging on the sofa, or kissing, or getting a bit too vigorous for John’s physical comfort over the past week. It’s the look on Sherlock’s face. It’s the fact that he took John at his (exact) word and left the subject of sleeping together (both meanings of the phrase

) for exactly one week. He set an alarm. It’s adorable. John’s never telling Sherlock he just thought that.

If there’s something to be said for the forced one week wait it’s that they’ve become very good at reading each other. They’re both using it to their advantage, trying to get the other to give in first as they kiss. Sherlock has John backed up against the desk. It’s interesting being physically covered like this. It’s not that John hasn’t had sex with people taller and stronger than him (see his entire armed services career: Sholto, James in particular), it’s the knowledge that if John wanted he could turn all of this on its head and have Sherlock backed up against a wall with his knees failing him in five seconds. Right now John’s happy to enjoy Sherlock being smug and confident as he’s pressed up against him.

It’s very easy to respond. John’s half hard against the thigh Sherlock has twisted between his legs. He can feel Sherlock’s interest pressed into his gut as Sherlock tries to get closer. He seems to be trying to worm his way into John by sheer force will and a bit of diffusion. It’s desperately arousing.

“Hey, hey.” John separates them just a bit. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you. Honestly. More than anything.”

Once, if anyone had said that it was possible for Sherlock to give the biggest, sappiest, grin possible John would have laughed in their face. But no, there it is, the brightest thing in the known universe. John winds his hand through Sherlock’s hair, tugs a bit just to see Sherlock’s little hitch of pleasure, strokes his ridiculous cheekbones (filled out a bit since John’s moved back, thank god) with the back of his hand. Sherlock’s doing his own exploring, fluttering his hands over John’s shoulders and arms. John’s at just the right height to lean up a tad and kiss that long neck. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse thudding against his tongue. Gorgeous.

Sherlock’s distracted, leaning more of his weight on John as John steadily works him into incoherence with filthy kisses to his mouth and neck. John sneaks a button undone and uses one finger to flick back and forth over Sherlock’s pectoral. Sherlock’s skin is warm, a flush spreading down. Small goosebumps are starting to rise. The touch seems to snap Sherlock out of the state he’s rapidly approaching. He grabs John’s hands. “Bed,” he says, his voice half an octave lower. It makes John’s stomach swoop in a very good way. “My bed, god, this past week, John.”

“Yeah, I know,” John half-growls as they stumble across the front room, through the kitchen. John presses Sherlock up against the blue wallpaper of the corridor just to get a bit of his own back. God, does he want this. John’s cock is paying full attention; his hips are stuttering towards Sherlock’s of their own accord. It feels brilliant to have Sherlock pinned to the wall between his arms and circle his hips slowly as he does what he’s dreamed of; neatly biting and sucking a proper (not violin made) hickey into the skin over Sherlock’s left collarbone.

“John,” Sherlock pants out, one large hand clutching John’s head, the other wrapped around John’s waist and holding him close. “You must, I can’t, please.” Incoherence already. This is everything John has ever wanted and more.

“”What’s that?” John pauses, looks up at Sherlock. What a sight. Flushed, hair mussed. Dark eyes. John wants to swallow him whole. The heat between them, literal and metaphorical, is burning him.

“John.” Sherlock draws himself up, managing to sound like they could be at the tesco metro and he’s about to launch into a short lecture on the properties of different sugar types used in commercially manufactured jam and _not_ trapped against the wall by a highly turned-on John Watson who’s about to have his way with him. “You still have your clothes on. So do I. This is most dis-satisfactory. Please go into my room and remedy it at once.”

“At once, you say.” John rises up on tiptoes a bit and brushes his lips lightly over Sherlock’s. Barely touching. It’s a cruel tease. Soft. Be soft for this bit. John kisses again and again, tempting Sherlock with strokes of his tongue until Sherlock is leaning down and John no longer needs to reach up. The warmth deep in his gut is spreading, sparking along his ribs. Sherlock’s reactions punch arousal deep into his diaphragm every time. Sherlock’s mouth tugs on John’s earlobe and then just below. Jesus, that’s sweet. It feels so good, Sherlock’s warm mouth and clever tongue working just like that.

 _Sherlock’s right,_ thinks John. _What a surprise. We really are wearing too many clothes._

“Okay then.” John steps away fully and calmly walks into Sherlock room. He has his shoes and socks off and has undone all the buttons on his shirt by the time he hears Sherlock take in a deep breath and let it out.

“That was a cruel trick, John Hamish Watson.” Middle name. Shit. John turns around as he pulls off his shirt. Sherlock’s eyes are narrowed. He’s concentrated on John. The rush of Sherlock’s gaze is ruthless. It drags John up as Sherlock stalks closer. They’re playing a game. The best sort of game because both players end up happy and with orgasms. However, John’s been playing this game far longer than Sherlock has. This is John’s territory, for now (soon they will share it).

“Was it, William?” It isn’t happiness, exactly. It’s a bright, painful joy that sits harnessed in the centre of John’s chest as he discovers that he and Sherlock will be very good together like this indeed. They’ve barely started and already they feel incandescent. They’re not even touching right now, though they’re about to as Sherlock reaches out and uses his large hands to sweep along John’s collar bones. John’s content to let Sherlock look for a second. God, Sherlock’s hands. John can’t help it, he lets the touch make his eyelids flutter. They feel so good, pressing heat into his skin. Sherlock’s eyes are wild and dark, a thin rim of quicksilver blue wide around massive pupils. John could fit his entire world in them.

Right, that’s it.

“Trousers off,” they both say. They’re too worked up to laugh at saying the same thing at the same time. Their hands are getting in each other’s way but finally they’re both on the bed. John insists on Sherlock keeping his shirt on, unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up. The deep purple is a lovely contrast to the pink tinted pale skin and the miles of Sherlock that’s been unspooled as his clothes were removed.

John takes a second as they catch their breath to look. Jesus. Sherlock is beautiful. He’s strong too, wiry lean muscle that ripples under his skin as John places a hand on his stomach. The quiet hitch of breath Sherlock makes is _lovely_ ; it makes John want to devour him and ingest any similar sounds. What a present, what a treat it is to have Sherlock spread out like this, showing off cat-like with a glint in his eye as he watches John’s reaction to him. It’s an appreciative reaction: John’s cock bobs up against his stomach. So does Sherlock’s

John looks at the red marks that are staining Sherlock’s collarbones, at the mess of his hair, at the slight sheen of sweat. It makes him fiercely possessive. He lets his hand drift downwards, past Sherlock’s navel. He takes Sherlock’s cock in hand. It’s longer than John’s, but thinner. The foreskin has slipped back and John uses the ring of his thumb and forefinger to slide it up and back over the head and then down. Repeat.

“John,” Sherlock groans. It’s a deep crackly thing. He’s screwed his eyes tightly shut. “John, please.” John wants to do nothing more that let the roiling heat inside of him take over but then it would a quick messy thing, no finesse. Sherlock deserves finesse. This should be good for him.

“What do you want, then?” John asks as he leans up to kiss Sherlock again. Sherlock wraps his arms around John, forearms and hands on John’s back, holding him close.

“You,” Sherlock says. “You, anything.”

John thinks back to the fantasy of a few weeks ago. He had wanted to fuck Sherlock, but he’s not going to do that straight away. Something to build up to. But he also wanted....

“Can I suck you? Has anyone ever done that, give you a blowjob?” Sherlock shakes his head. That’s a crying shame, John decides. Who would waste Sherlock like that, would see Sherlock before them and not want to give him every sort of pleasure possible?

People more concerned with their own gain and means than Sherlock’s, John supposes. He doesn’t want to think about it.

“Is that no to me giving you a blow job or ever having been on the receiving end?” John crooks an eyebrow in question.

Sherlock presses his thumb into the wrinkles on John’s forehead and rubs slightly, forcing them to relax and smooth out as much as they ever do. “Receiving end,” Sherlock says quietly. That clinches it for John. This is going to be spectacular. He smiles wickedly into Sherlock’s mouth, noting the reaction.

“Okay. Sit up against the pillows a bit for me.” Sherlock shuffles up so he’s partially sitting. John spreads Sherlock’s legs and settles on his stomach between them, thrilled at Sherlock’s compliance. What does Sherlock need before they start? Sherlock likes clear instructions before new things and situations. John tries to think. “Couple of things. Do you want me to use a condom?”

“I’m clean. I know you are.” Sherlock traces around John’s mouth like he’s distracted at the thought of what’s about to happen. John briefly captures his thumb and suckles on it just because. “Thank you for asking.”

“I deal with enough idiots up at Pentonville to not think about it. Um, you can put your hands on my head but don’t pull my hair or try to push me. I don’t like it.”

“Okay,” Sherlock whispers.

“If you feel overwhelmed and want me to stop just say. I will. I promise.”

“Is that likely to happen?”

“I don’t know,” John shrugs. “It can be intense, and I know you’re very sensitive. It might.” He presses a kiss, enough tongue to be explicitly filthy, into the skin inside Sherlock’s knee. The sharp intake of breath is exactly what he’s looking for. This will be good. John can’t help but pump his hips so his cock ruts once against the bedding. The movement only contributes to the embers burning in his groin. John pushes the feeling into a glorious background hum of arousal. He takes pride in this. He likes getting his partners off with his mouth and hands. He’s very good at it.

He works kisses inside Sherlock’s thigh, each one higher. He pays particular attention to one spot near the top, rubbing at it with his cheeks and then biting and nipping and bringing the blood to the surface until Sherlock’s almost writhing, hands clenched into the sheets and making the most wonderful noises. John wants two mouths and seven hands so he can do everything at once.

“John, oh, it’s too much there, John, please, oh,” Sherlock whines. John releases the now fresh bruise dark bit of skin and lets Sherlock calm his breathing some. He gives it the lightest of kisses, just a peck, before looking up at Sherlock.

What a sight. Sherlock’s shirt is starting to darken with sweat in some places. He looks almost undone, and John hasn’t even gotten his mouth on Sherlock’s prick yet. “Thank you for telling me,” John says, rubbing soothingly at the skin of Sherlock’s other thigh. “Do you want me to carry on?”

His breathing more regulated, Sherlock nods. John keeps eye contact as he lowers his head and takes the tip of Sherlock’s prick into his mouth. He kisses it, letting his tongue wrap around the head as his hand wraps around the base. He can feel the heavy beat of Sherlock’s pulse, jackrabbit quick. He could do without the bitter taste of pre-come but neither of them have particularly good diets so he expected that. More than anything it’s the smell of musk and sweat and man and _Sherlock_. That and the sound Sherlock makes as John starts to slowly lower his mouth. In any other situation John would call it pain, but right now it means that Sherlock is letting go and letting John give him this.

Sherlock’s hands scrabble to hold on to something as John sucks a bit, releases the suction, does it again. He has to breathe in through his nose for a second; getting caught up. This, Sherlock in his mouth and looking at him like he’s a miracle, eyes dazed with pleasure, feels more sacred than any Christmas service he’s sat through, any wedding he’s ever been to (or participated in). John’s had fun sex and why not sex and okay sex and bad sex and pretty fucking good sex and it’s Friday night sex and drunk sex and fireworks sex and fast sex and slow sex and quick behind the sandbags sex. Sex with people he’s liked and people he’s loved and people he’s been spitting mad with. No other time has it felt like this. An act of worship. _Yes,_ John thinks as he takes Sherlock deeper, hears Sherlock groan his name and stroke his hands restlessly over John’s head so he doesn’t cling on. _Everything, for you. There should be an altar to spread you out on, love._

There is an altar. It’s their bed.

Sherlock’s getting hotter in his mouth, his hips twitching and the pitch of his voice all over the place. If John bobs his head up and down, like so, Sherlock lets out a series of sharp little huffs and gasps. If John takes him deeper and uses his tongue against the head of Sherlock’s prick Sherlock groans so deeply it may as well be a sub-sonic sound.

“John, Christ.  John.” There isn’t a more flattering sound on earth than Sherlock panting out his name like that. Sherlock’s balls are drawn up tight. John pets them a bit, tugs them down slightly and Sherlock’s groan of frustration as John brings him back from the edge is marvellous. Look at what John can do. Turn the ‘transport’ into something worth paying attention to. God, he feels smug.

John takes pity on Sherlock and starts up again. Flicking pressure with his tongue. All he needs to do is be steady; Sherlock’s so wound up now that anything more would be too much. Using one arm to pin down Sherlock’s hips some John reaches up and lets Sherlock squeeze his hand. His bones grind with the strength of Sherlock’s grip but John doesn’t care. It’s another point of connection, of feeling some of what Sherlock’s feeling. Which, going by Sherlock’s reactions, is something special. It makes John feel like the biggest person in the world. He knows how good he is at a great many things but it’s always nice to have confirmation.

“You, John, I’m..it,” Sherlock babbles. “Fuck.” And then he’s reduced to breathless gasps, arm thrown up to cover his eyes. John swallows. Easiest way to quickly get rid of the bitter taste and slightly unpleasant texture. John gently releases Sherlock’s prick from his mouth, suckles lightly to clear up some. Sherlock is still and panting as John lies beside him.

Now Sherlock’s come the waiting fire in John’s groin flares to life. He can’t help but reach down and take himself in hand. God, that feels good. He gives himself a couple of slow strokes as Sherlock starts to stir, liking the stretch and prickle sensation in the wake of his hand.

“In the top draw,” Sherlock mutters as he uncovers his eyes. “Lubricant.” John turns over to fish it out. In the draw are several batteries (AA and AAA), a ball of string, a few chewed pencils and an empty biro, a dog eared notebook, an anal plug, an open box of condoms and a bottle of silicone based lube that’s a third full. “Celibate, not dead, John,” Sherlock says before John can ask the inevitable question. He turns back to face Sherlock, squeezing some lube into his hand and putting the bottle aside.

Sherlock’s face is more relaxed than John’s ever seen it. There’s happiness in the crinkle of his eyes and a softness about his mouth. _That mouth,_ John thinks as he leans into the kiss. _You fucking gorgeous creature, coming apart like that for me._ Sherlock would like to hear that.

“Gorgeous, you were, coming apart for me like that,” John says against Sherlock’s red lips (Sherlock must have been biting them) and kisses the resulting smile. The slickness of his hand on his throbbing cock is practically heavenly after ignoring it for so long.

“Here.” Sherlock rearranges them a bit, sliding a leg in-between John’s and pulling John snugly against, and slightly on top of him. “Rub off against me? I want it on my skin.”

What’s John supposed to do, ignore the offer? It feels really fucking good, pressed up against Sherlock like this, his slicked cock rubbing into Sherlock’s stomach and hand, Sherlock’s leg pressing up.

“Fuck yes,” John moans quietly as the nub of his orgasm coalesces at the base of his cock. He can feel it slowing making its way up his shaft. He’s too gone to kiss now, panting into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s hands are on his back, one making its way down to grip John’s arse and encourage him, the other firmly stroking up and down John’s spine from the base of his skull down to his sacrum and back again. It feels so good. Unfairly good. Sherlock is saying something, telling John to come on, let him see.

John has never been able to deny Sherlock anything.

The aftermath is lazy and quiet. They stay curled near, though John pulls up the blanket folded at the end of the bed so they don’t get cold as the sweat dries. Underneath the blanket the air gets humid and close but John wouldn’t have it any other way.

He was right at the beginning. That was spectacular.

“That was very good. You’re very good,” Sherlock says quietly. They’re so close that he could barely whisper and John would still hear him clearly.

“It will only get better,” John says, feeling snoozy and lax.

~~~~~

John wakes. It’s a Sunday morning. Sherlock isn’t in their bed, but John never expects him to be unless he’s been working too hard and has run himself into the ground again or the genius wants some lazy morning sex. John washes up and brushes his teeth, wanders naked back into the bedroom and gets some jeans and an old t-shirt out of his part of the large armoire. There’s something incredibly satisfying about seeing Sherlock’s fine shirts and suits hung up next to his clothes. It reminds him, Sherlock has an appointment at his tailor’s late on Tuesday afternoon. John’s going along to keep him entertained (to see Sherlock stripped down and happy up on a pedestal discussing the drape of the fabric).

Sherlock’s not in the kitchen but there’s a mostly drunken cup of coffee on the table and half a crust of toast on a crumb strewn plate by it. At least Sherlock has eaten something before going out. John finds himself half-smiling absently, an unexpected welling up of fondness arresting his breath for a moment. His miraculous loon of a man.

After eating breakfast John starts to go through the Sunday papers (they must account for half the delivery round, the poor paper-boy probably hates them). Mrs Hudson comes up for a cup of tea and they chat through the week, John putting the funniest moments from both types of work, doctoring and detecting, the best way he can, Mrs Hudson sharing the latest gossip from her bridge club, until footsteps bound up the stairs.

“John!” Sherlock practically bounces across the room, walking on air. He bends down to give John their customary hello kiss, a mere friendly brush of lips before unfolding up again to his stupidly tall height. John never expected them to kiss hello and goodbye, but they do. He’s not complaining.

“You two,” Mrs Hudson almost coos, hands clasped beneath her chin. “Every time.” A year and she still reacts like this when they show affection to the other. John thinks she may be happier than they are that they finally pulled their heads from their arses and got on with things.

The gleam in Sherlock’s eyes spells bad things for bad people. John can feel the anticipation building. “What do we have this time?” he asks as he shoves his feet into his boots, ties the laces tight, and grabs his coat.

“Robbery. Clever. Donovan called me, so it must be good. Goodbye, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock bends to kiss her on the cheek and ushers John out in front of him. “I have a cab waiting.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The dead frogs neatly wrapped in the crisper draw are for a replication of Galvani and Volta's experiments in animal electricity or galvanism, these days called electrophysiology. It seems like the kind of thing Sherlock would do while bored. It's the kind of thing I would do while bored, should I have the resources. It's also something that John would be interested in. Unlike roasting an eyeball. Or murdering an owl.
> 
> Victor Trevor, is, of course, from The Adventure of the Gloria Scott. It's great fun to bring him back every now and then to torture John with jealousy and suspense. It has been done before by others in different fics (some more skilled than I) and every time it is a delight.
> 
> The Museum of Modern Design and Architecture is real, and so is Middlesex University. The book isn't. This plot line only came into existence because I wanted to mention Cockfosters for my own personal amusement.
> 
> Please, should you injure yourself or dislocate your shoulder, don't be a stubborn arse and not seek medical help. It doesn't matter that John's a doctor and he's used to treating people (and himself) in less-than-sufficient circumstances. Get help for yourself.
> 
> I, once, knocked over a glass bottle of vinegar in Speedy's with a mis-timed swish of my coat.
> 
>  _Blue Planet_ , for those of you don't know, is a documentary series about life in the oceans. It, and all the other wildlife series by the BBC life documentary teams have the most beautiful orchestrated scores, all of which are available on youtube for you listening pleasure. Blue Planet is the most relaxing of these series.
> 
> Violinists do get bruises like hickeys on their collar-bones and necks. I was at a Sherlockian party of sorts and a violinist was playing; I saw hers and immediately started to imagine what would happen if Sherlock had a hickey-like bruise on his neck that John hadn't put there. 13000 and change words and my first story in almost 3 years later; this was spat out onto my keyboard. It's also the reason that the working document for this is titled violin!hickey on my laptop.
> 
> Stella and Ted show up in the comments of John's blog every now and then and are mentioned in TSoT. Several people (myself included) have theorised that they were John and Harry's foster parents. It makes sense for his character.
> 
> This ended up roughly 3000 more words than I expected it to be. I blame the sex.


End file.
